


Exit Music

by Wolvesandwerewolves



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen, Ghosts and Spirits, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Temporary Character Death, Mentions of blood and gore, No Incest, Telekinesis, Telekinetic! Klaus, Temporary Character Death, can’t believe that’s a tag, he just makes jokes a lot that come true, possibly precognitive! Klaus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:08:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24982120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves
Summary: Five disappears when they’re thirteen. There’s no sign of him coming back, no sign of anything. Of course they’re worried.But maybe if they knew, if they knew what it was like, they wouldn’t ask Klaus to get clean and try to summon a brother they hope can’t be summoned.But they can’t know.And Klaus is worried, too.
Relationships: Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Everyone, klaus hargreeves & ben hargreeves
Comments: 21
Kudos: 105





	1. Two, Four, Six

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll update every month!! This fic isn’t finished, yet, but it’s got a good chunk written. Hopefully only updating it every month will give me time to get my shit together. 
> 
> I’ll update tags as needed! The important ones are mentioned.
> 
> ALSO every single song mentioned in this fic is straight from the Umbrella Academy soundtrack. I usually hate it when music is included in any work of fiction but I figured since they’re already involved in the fandom it would work—let me know if it doesn’t and I’ll stop lol

Five disappears when they’re thirteen.

Surprise, surprise, he’s been high the whole time. Has been ever since he fell down the stairs and broke his jaw eight months ago. And it’s no secret—he’s already been to rehab once, and his father has Mom regularly search his room for contraband. But that’s _okay_. It just means Klaus is better at hiding his things.

No one really cares anymore, anyway. The drugs make the ghosts go away. He’s deemed useless, and ‘banned’ from going on missions. _It’s too dangerous,_ Luther says, voice as strong and as harsh as their father’s. _You’re high—you’re going to get us all killed._ And Klaus laughs in his face, because death is a joke to him. Everything is a joke to him.

But then Five disappears, and Klaus has a hard time laughing at that. He goes to his room that night, and when Five never comes home, downs a pill with one of his father’s bottles of whiskey, and laughs at himself instead. 

——————————————————————

Three days later, and Five still hasn’t shown up. But, at least according to Dad, that doesn’t mean they can put life on hold. They still have to do training, and homework, too.

Klaus has an essay Mom assigned him about his plan for the future, and where he sees himself in five to ten years. _Haha_.

He’s in Diego’s room, lying on the floor with a blank notebook and a pencil. Ben and Diego are sitting on the bed, doing their own homework. 

It’s quiet. Boring. Klaus has no idea what to write for his paper, except maybe ‘not here.’ Unfortunately, the last time he turned in a two word essay, Mom set a new rule for all future assignments to be at least _two thousand_ words long. No one really liked that, and he spent an entire week donating his desserts and cracking jokes to try to make up for it. 

Klaus sighs. He rips a page from the back of his notebook, full of old doodles. There’s the Eiffel Tower from one of their old missions; the moon, with a small pride flag sticking out of it; a few smiley faces; some aliens; and caricatures of each of his siblings, as well as one of Mom. He rolls the paper into a crumpled ball and throws it at his brothers.

Diego groans and tosses his pencil at him in retaliation, with deadly accuracy. The eraser hits him in the center of his forehead, then bounces off and lands on the floor. Ben just sighs.

“What do you want?” he asks, putting his history book down.

“Where do you see me in five to ten years?”

“Rehab,” Diego deadpans. “For the fourth time.”

“Or dead,” Klaus agrees, trying for solemn, but he breaks out laughing. 

Ben rolls his eyes, glances down and starts straightening out the paper he threw. He opens his mouth to say something, then pauses.

Right, Klaus thinks. Five’s caricature. 

“What is it?” Diego asks, leaning over to look at it.

“Nothing,” Ben mutters. “Just—where do you think Five is?”

Diego shifts on the bed, shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s been three days.” He pauses, glances towards Klaus. “You haven’t. . . heard anything, have you?”

Klaus stills, coughs through the sudden lump in his throat and grins away the tight feeling in his jaw.

He thinks of the ghosts he used to see all the time, _everyday_. They were horrifying. With every mission, more ghosts roamed their hallways. They used to beg him for help, screaming, so many voices crowding around until his ears rang. 

He doesn’t see them anymore, except for in his nightmares. Every time he closes his eyes at night, they’re there. Waiting for him. 

His dreams are full of blood, and death. The people in them aren’t even human, not anymore. They’re creatures, hollowed out inside, limbs missing, bones broken. 

He doesn’t want to see his brother turn in to something like that. Not even in his dreams. Especially not outside of them.

He can’t. 

“Nope.” He grips the pills in his pocket, forces himself to laugh as he takes one, taunting his brothers with it on his tongue before he swallows it dry. “No ghosts here.”

In hindsight, breaking his jaw was the best thing he’s ever done for himself. 

“Come on, Klaus,” Diego says, but he doesn’t understand what he’s asking.

“Could you try?” Ben asks. Neither of them understand. 

Maybe if they knew, they wouldn’t ask. Just thinking about it makes him dizzy, and his hands start to feel too warm, sweaty and prickly. His ears ring and his stomach hurts.

Right before he broke his jaw, it felt like everything was spinning wildly out of control. Just like his siblings, his powers were getting stronger each day. For someone like Luther, it meant he increased another 500 lbs in his strength training.

For someone like him, it meant he woke up in the mornings with scratches and bruises he couldn’t remember getting. Red trailed down his chest and stomach in four or five thin lines, over and over again, and Klaus could trace over them with his own fingertips, imagine he did it himself. Fingerprints would bruise yellow and brown around his bony wrists, would dig themselves purple and blue against his collarbone. Those hand marks would be larger than his own, bigger sometimes than even his father’s.

He never felt them in the night, but in the morning light they would sting and ache. He never figured out how he was making the ghosts real, whole, and solid, and he hopes never to get the opportunity to.

Klaus is thankful, really, that it never escalated past that. Every time he closes his eyes, the ghosts scream their revenge, holding their death things like weapons—a pillow, a knife, a book or some rope. Whatever they had died holding, or killed with before his siblings killed them.

Drugs are his _only cure._

So he scoffs, and plays denial, grinning like he's the Joker from one of Ben’s comics. “Five isn’t dead. He’s a cockroach. I’m pretty sure he could survive the apocalypse with a book and some chalk.” 

“Don’t be an asshole,” Diego grumbles, turning roughly back to his homework. His cheeks are pink, and when he turns the page of the book, it tears. He’s angry, but he doesn’t ask again, so Klaus tells himself he’s relieved.

But Ben frowns at him. A tiny line forms in between his eyebrows, like it does after every bloody mission, or every time Klaus looks him the eyes and lies to him. “Wouldn’t it be nice to know for sure?”

“I _do_ know for sure,” he lies, watching Ben’s forehead crease more. He bites his lip, hums cheerfully to himself as a distraction— _Happy Together_ —and lies back down on the floor.

He writes his essay as a joke. In five years from now, he’ll be living far away from here—on a farm, in the Middle of Nowhere, Montana, growing weed and mushrooms and raising goats. He’ll never see his father again, never see another ghost except for maybe in his dreams, but all his siblings, and Mom, and maybe even Pogo will visit, and they’ll laugh at how far he’s come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER ALERT: 
> 
> I do intend for this to eventually be ghost! Klaus, but didn’t want to update the major character death warning as he is still alive right now. But that is where this fic is going, and if anyone wants me to update the tags now, please let me know in the comments! 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting <3


	2. One, Three, Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The clothes Klaus wears in this fic are inspired by outfits my middle school self wore when I thought I was so cool and trying hard to be a grown up when really I was just some stupid kid 
> 
> That being said, he probably pulls a plaid skirt and ugly tie off better than me

Luther and Alison come to him two days later. He’s in his room, listening to _Sinnerman_ , because he’s a sinner, man, and he thinks it’s funny. _The Lord said, ‘Go to the devil.’ He said, ‘Go to the devil.’_

He’s wearing an open button down shirt, sleeves rolled up and black tie fixed loosely around his neck, hanging against his bare chest. He stole his sister’s plaid skirt and some of her makeup, too. There’s eyeliner on his waterline, and pink lipstick used as blush. Clothes fly around him in a circle, a cruel masquerade of ghosts dancing with him as he hums. 

“What are you doing?” Alison asks. “Is that my skirt?”

Klaus spins around, but the clothes around him keep dancing. She and Luther are standing just outside his room, both looking very uncomfortable, staring at him and waiting. 

“Ah, my siblings!” he sings, laughing, and clapping along to the song. He turns to grab a cigarette from the nightstand and lights it off the flame of the candle on his windowsill. Then he spins back towards them, throws his arms open wide and grins. “Come in, come in!” 

Alison smiles, even though it doesn’t reach her eyes, and Luther frowns at him. But she grabs his hand and they step inside, maneuvering in between the clothes and sitting roughly on his bed, the only place that’s free. Klaus smiles back, takes a deep drag off his cigarette. 

“Are you busy?” Luther asks, glancing around his room, pointedly raising his eyebrows as one of their mother’s dresses, pink and polka dotted, curtsies and twirls.

“Oh, not at all! What can I do for you? Lonely?” He crouches, leans forward and watches, entertained, as his siblings lean back. He takes another drag off his cigarette, pulls it away from his lips and blows smoke rings in the air right next to them. Alison coughs, waving her hand to dissipate the smoke. “Or,” he whispers, winking, “if either of you need any condoms, or maybe some friendly, _non-judgmental advice—”_

“That’s not what we’re here for,” Alison interrupts, rushed. She glances away, towards the door, like she’s considering leaving. But she looks back at him and frowns, determined and annoyed.

Luther looks disgusted, and actually scoots away from Alison just an inch, cheeks pink in an embarrassing blush. Klaus laughs, winks at Alison and watches as Luther looks even more angry at him. “Cut the crap,” he says. “Klaus, we need you to contact Five.” 

The clothes dancing around them fall to the floor like marionettes with their strings cut. Klaus feels like his heart is in his throat. 

_Not them, too._

Klaus waves his hand, and the record stops. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to smile, and then laughs in their faces. Their request is ridiculous, and he’s going to act like it is. “Sorry. No can do, hermano.” 

Luther scoffs at him, angry. His fists are tight at his side, mouth drawn into a hard line. “Why?” he snaps. “Because you’re high?” 

Klaus laughs again, high and shrill, enough to hurt his throat, and claps his hands like it’s a joke. “Of course I’m high! How are you _not?”_

Alison sighs, turns her face away like it’s hard to look at him. Luther stands up, towering above Klaus. They’re the same age, and yet, he’s so much taller. 

“You’re useless,” he mutters, kicking clothes out of the way as he leaves. The door slams, rattling the old walls, and then it’s just him and Alison. 

Klaus puts the cigarette to his lips again, breaths in. He taps the excess ash off onto his bedroom floor without a care, uses the toe of his shoe to smear it into the light grey rug.

“I’m worried about you,” Alison says, so quiet he can hardly hear. 

Klaus doesn’t know what to say to that. Their brother is missing, maybe lost in time or dead or both, and she’s worried about him? It doesn’t seem fair.

Maybe he’s starting to worry, too.

But he thinks again of the ghosts, and how they hate him, or maybe need him like his siblings need him. For his power. 

He doesn’t want to contact Five.

“You want a cigarette?”

Alison shakes her head. “No,” she says. 

Klaus grins. He feels like a dog baring his teeth, but it’s not a warning so much as it is just plain funny in the worst way. “You gonna rumor me?”

She’s not horrified like he thought she would be. She just sighs, like she’s thought about it, and shakes her head.

Klaus tells himself he’s impressed, and he is, he thinks. His stomach churns, and he squashes down any other feelings he might have at the thought of her rumoring him.

_She won’t,_ he thinks.  
  
“No. Just . . . think about it. We all miss Five. We’re all worried. We’re just asking for help. Okay?” 

Klaus shrugs, unsure of what else to do or say. His sister stays there, on his bed, staring at him intently. As if she’s waiting for him to change his mind, dig his ouija board out of the hidden depths of his closet right now. 

But Klaus isn’t about to do that, at least not without a rumor of encouragement, so instead he sets another record onto the track—Radiohead this time, _Exit Music (for a Film)_ —and floats the clothes back into the air. They dance around him, slower than before, sensual, almost, or maybe sad. He sighs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, breathing in smoke like it’s a lifeline. Eyes still closed, he starts spinning, humming along and dancing. 

The bed creaks in the background of the music. _Don’t lose_ . . . Footsteps fade away towards the edge of the room. . . . _your nerve_ . . . The latch quietly clicks as his sister shuts the door. _Breathe. Keep breathing._

_I can’t do this_

_Alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what’s up guys. I said I would post a new chapter every month...well it’s next month already. And I was planning on waiting until like at least the 20th. But I need motivation to write this fic so uh here you go. Like fifteen days early. 
> 
> I have no impulse control and no concept of delayed gratification. Go me. 
> 
> Also pls check out my new Klaus has schizophrenia AU....ok bye xoxo


	3. Four & Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg it’s September 1st already!  
> which means i can finally update this series...here ya go! 
> 
> i just got out of school, and im going to be working on my schizophrenic klaus au, so hopefully tonight there will be a new chapter out! Sorry it’s taking a little longer than usual :/ <3

Later that night, Klaus goes down to the kitchen half an hour past bedtime. He’s been smoking weed, and he’s starving. Mom is plugged in, and Dad is probably in his study, like he always is. Pogo is God knows where, doing Pogo things. Maybe he sleeps, too.

So Klaus expects the kitchen to be empty and bare, except for the ghost of a young woman he can’t even see anymore, head twisted backwards and humming a lullaby.

But it’s not empty. The light is on, and Vanya is standing on the counter on her tip toes, reaching for something on a high shelf in the cabinet. 

Klaus whistles. “Do you have the munchies, too?” he whispers, and chuckles to himself. 

Vanya gasps, spins around with wide eyes. She sighs, sort of deflates when she sees him. She seems a little nervous, but Klaus brushes it off. Nervousness is a practically a part of her personality, in the same way hysteria and satire are a part of his. 

“I’m making a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich,” she says, not looking him in the eye. “For Five.“

Klaus feels his heart skip a beat. _Of course_ , he’s out of the loop. He always is. “Is he back? When? I—”

“No!” Vanya says, cutting him off. She bites her lip, arms folding around herself like a hug. “Just—just in case.”

“Oh.” Klaus nods. No, he isn’t back yet. Of course he isn’t. He supposes, if he was, the house would be louder—no one would be in bed. He silently scolds himself for thinking, even for a minute, that his brother came back for them. Maybe he never will.

. . . Maybe he’s dead. For real. A ghost like the rest of them, hovering around and screaming where his cloudy conscious can’t hear. 

He clears his throat. Forces himself not to think of Five, bloody and pale, turned something less than human through Death’s hand. He tries not to think of Alison and Luther asking him to summon Five. Or of Diego and Ben asking him to summon Five. 

He tries not to hope for or think of Vanya asking him to summon Five.

_Forget it,_ Klaus thinks. This isn’t even what he came down here for. 

His stomach growls. 

“Make one for me?”

Vanya tears her eyes away from the floor, looking him in the eye for once. She nods, then glances up at the cabinet behind her. 

“I think Dad hid the peanut butter. I heard him and Pogo talking about me earlier.”

“Well, how rude,” Klaus says airily. He waves his hand, and everything files out in single file, settling down on the counter next to Vanya. There’s cans of soup, corn and peas, a bag of rice, and at the end, peanut butter. “Found it.”

Vanya smiles at him shyly. “Thanks, Klaus.” She lowers herself to a crouch and hops off the counter. Then she pauses, glancing back at him. “Um, do you want crunchy or creamy?”

“Surprise me!” Klaus grins and winks at her, then saunters over to the fridge. He grabs the milk, uses his telekinesis to set it on the kitchen table. “It’s a feast, after all,” he whispers, watching as the hidden wine glasses from the top shelf float over to the table. 

Vanya stares at him. “Klaus! We can’t use Dad’s glasses. What if he finds out?”

“Well, I guess he’ll have no choice but to kill us. Don’t worry, I’ll be your guide through the afterlife,” he says, bowing dramatically. 

Vanya shakes her head at him, but she’s smiling a little bit. She turns back around to make the snack, and Klaus watches idly as milk pours itself into the glasses, sloshing over the edge and dripping on the table.

Vanya rips off a paper towel by the sink, wraps up three sandwiches and carries them to the table. Klaus sits down, pulls a chair out for her without touching it. 

They sit across the table from each other, wine glasses filled with milk. The chair next to Vanya is pulled out, one sandwich setting out with no one to eat it. 

Klaus might sneak back down later.

“To Five,” he says, holding his glass out. 

Vanya worries her eyebrows at him. She grabs her own glass, clinking the rim with his. More milk dribbles down the sides of the glass, but neither of them move to clean it. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. What does?

“He’ll come back, Klaus,” she says. 

“Alright,” Klaus says, and doesn’t realize until then that he’s not sure she’s right. He pushes the thought away. “Then, to drugs.”

This time Vanya smiles. “And to Five. To . . . finding his way home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i guess this one is kinda short, isn’t it? oops, oh well 
> 
> thanks for reading <3   
> xoxoxo


	4. Picture a Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what’s up guyssss sorry this took so long for me to upload :( i already had it written but honestly my motivation just completely left me and I couldn’t even do so much as log on to ao3 
> 
> unfortunately i lost my job due to covid, i’ve been super stressed lately :( i don’t have anything lined up yet but i have friends willing to help me <3 anyways thanks for reading as always!! and sorry for taking so long <3

A full two weeks after Five disappears, and there’s a giant portrait of him set up on the mantle above the fireplace.

Klaus hates it. Every time he walks by, he feels Five’s eyes burning into him, his smile as fake as his own’s. As fake as everyone else’s, lately.

Klaus wonders where he is now. He tells himself he’s not worried, just curious. 

_Wouldn’t it be nice to just know for sure?_ Ben had said.

Because Ben is worried, and so is everyone else, and maybe Klaus should be, too. 

Maybe. 

That doesn’t mean he is.

He thinks of Five, standing up to Dad when no one else would. How Five would help him with his math homework, even though Klaus could never pay attention long enough for him to work out an equation. And the time Five blipped into rehab to visit him on their thirteenth birthday, and called him a dumbass who was wasting his potential, but still left him some cake, and a lighter with a single candle.

Goddammit. Klaus sighs to himself. 

_He’d do the same for you_ , he thinks. 

So Klaus goes to his room. He kneels on the ground in front of his dresser, shoving his arm underneath it and ripping the taped on envelope off from the bottom. He empties it out on his bed, counts the pills. Then he goes to his closet, finds the hidden pockets he sewed onto the inside linings of the Academy clothes he never wears anymore. He throws the weed on the bed next to the pills. 

After that, it’s the hidden stash of earned cash and stolen alcohol. He keeps the whiskey and bourbon in emptied out water bottles and hides them in the attic. They’re the most dangerous to have, because Dad takes it personally if he finds his own whiskey in Klaus’s room. He learned that from experience, and moved the most important of his stuff upstairs, instead. He grabs his empty hamper, shoves a blanket in the bottom of it, and heads to the attic. 

It’s dark up there, even in the daylight. The only window has shutters on it, and only a small amount of light filters through in tiny rays. Klaus has to close his eyes for a minute, stand there in the dark and let his eyes adjust enough to see. 

Diego’s first guitar is hidden up here. It’s strings are broken, and out of tune, and the bridge and saddle have a big crack down the center of it. It’s old, and dusty, and hasn’t seen the light of day in about three or four years, since Diego saved up enough of his Christmas and birthday money from Mom to buy a better shaped acoustic. 

Klaus walks over to it, slowly and zigzagging to avoid the creaky spots on the old wooden floor. He reaches inside the sound hole, pulls out another envelope and grabs all the cash inside. He sits down, counts it and then counts it again, just to be sure.

It’s a lot of money. He could buy a whole other stash of drugs, if he wants. Leave tonight, sneak out to the only bar in town that doesn’t care if he’s a teen, they’ll let him in to do whatever or whoever he wants if he has a fake ID. He’s a little tall for his age—even though Luther is still taller—and able to pass off as at least fifteen with makeup and low heels. Maybe older if he tries hard enough.

He misses that bar. He hasn’t been since a week before Five disappeared. He misses the locals who raise their eyebrows at him, and the older kids with their fake IDs and poorly rolled blunts, who push him into corners and kiss him, who are completely unaware about his stupid powers, and his stupid siblings, and all of their stupid missions. He misses feeling like someone else—someone older, and normal. He misses feeling like he’d escaped from home, even if only for a few hours. 

He grips the money tight in his hands, recounts all of it in his head. 

Or, he thinks, he could use it for it’s original purpose, before he found drugs—to run away. He could pack up his stash in his hamper, throw some clothes on top of the alcohol, and shove it in the trunk of his Dad’s car before stealing the keys. 

He could leave.

Just like Five did.

_Probably_ , he tells himself. _Just like Five_ probably _did. If he’s not dead._

Klaus bites his lip, folds the wad of cash up and gently sets it back into it’s hiding place. Then he gets up, moves to the corner on the opposite side of the room and searches through dust covered boxes. Most of them hold their clothes from when they were little kids. There’s a few notebooks from years worth of home school assignments, or songs that Diego or Vanya wrote and tossed away, or their old doodles that Mom would hang up on the fridge for months at a time. Somewhere around here, there’s also a broken plastic Christmas tree they hardly ever put up—except for the time photographers and journalists from different magazines come for interviews and pictures in December—along with some string lights and glass ornaments. 

Klaus moves one of the boxes from on top of another one, doing his best not to get dust everywhere. He opens the box on the bottom, unfolds blankets that smell like mothballs and picks up the pillowcase hidden inside. He drops it into his hamper, throws the clean blanket on top, and rearranges everything so there’s no sign he was here. 

The pillowcase goes on the bed next to the rest of his stash. He unties the top, drops four bottles down, and counts everything he has. He thinks it should last about two weeks, maybe one if he drinks tonight to get rid of some of the stuff. 

So. Klaus sighs, sits down on the bed, curling up and pressing his back up against the wall. 

He won’t buy anymore drugs after he’s done with what he has. Maybe he’ll save a few pills and a blunt or two for after, hide them in his old Academy uniforms. But he’ll save them, and he’ll detox, and it’ll suck. 

But he’ll be able to see ghosts again—even if the thought makes his chest hurt, like his lungs are squeezing around his heart, twisting up inside so he _can’t breathe_ , and, _oh God, his head hurts and there’s cold sweat on his neck and acid on the back of his tongue and_

—and—

Klaus takes a deep breath, clenches his fists so hard his nails dig into his palms, leaving tiny half-moons that fade when he forces himself to relax. 

—and he’ll find out if Five is alive or not. Maybe then his siblings and Five’s stupid portrait will get off his back. 

He’s not sure what will happen after. 


	5. Percussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys <3This chapter includes some graphic descriptions of blood, gore, and mentioned violence. 
> 
> Also, there’s a Lilo and Stitch reference in here somewhere 
> 
> Thanks for reading!! <3

Another two weeks go by with no sign of Five, and Klaus has run out of pills. Yesterday. He looked up drug withdrawal in their library, and found enough about it in an old medical reference book he stashed underneath his bed, right next to the pamphlets he got from rehab. He’s done it the safest way he could, taking a little less each time, and cutting himself off slowly. 

He still thinks it blows, though. Just like it did last time, if not worse than that. 

He told Mom and Dad he had the flu at breakfast, and was thankfully excused to go lounge pitifully in his bed. He feels like he has the flu. He’s gross, and sweaty, and he smells. And he’s exhausted, too—insomnia last night meant he didn’t fall asleep until around five in the morning, and their alarms all go off at six to get ready for the day. The muscles in his back and pecs ache, slowly crawling down his chest like heartburn. He’s nauseous, and his throat feels tight. 

His fingers itch for the spare pills he has still hidden in his closet, the alcohol stuffed inside a hoodie. But there’s only four pills and a single bottle—not much of anything, really—and Klaus _promised himself_ he’d do this. He promised Five like a prayer he would do this.

Weed helps, anyway, the only vice he has left next to plain cigarettes, even if neither take the ghosts away. Smoking was the only thing that bought him enough relief to at least sleep an hour this morning. He wants another blunt, at _least_ , just _one_ , that’s it, but he _can’t_. He spaced it out and made a timeline for himself last night—or maybe it was this morning, he can’t remember, and does it matter? He can’t smoke again until at least five pm. Maybe later, if he can push it off late enough to be able to fall asleep at bedtime.

It’s going to be hard, though. 

The ghosts are starting to come back. It’s only a few, right now, and thank God it’s the mostly quiet ones. But they’re there, and soon there will be more of them.

There’s a man lying limp in a puddle of blood in the middle of his bedroom floor, never even staining the rug. Well, half of a man, really, which is something that Klaus thinks could have been a funny joke if his head wasn’t pounding. He tries to laugh, and a quiet sob bubbles out of his throat instead, so soft it’s swallowed up by the ghost’s sharp gasp. 

He’s missing his legs. Cut off at the middle, actually, intestines and vertebrae exposed, soaked a thick, ugly, glossy-wet red. It smells. Shinny copper and metal, too warm bar bathrooms never washed out. The guy isn’t even here, he’s not even _real_ to anyone except Klaus, and he smells. 

It’s disgusting. But at least he’s quiet. 

The only other ghost in the room stands in the corner, one arm missing, blood streaming out sickeningly like a broken water pipe, dripping slowly off the walls of Klaus’s bedroom. He’s on his knees, sobbing, and every once in a while, Klaus can hear him muttering nonsense over and over again. He only ever hears one broken word, and he can’t make out the rest but that one awful word— _monster_.

He thinks they both died at the hands of the Horror. 

Or tentacles, really. The tentacles of the Horror, and it’s not even a desperate joke. As horrifying and awful as it is, as bad as it really does make Klaus feel—he can’t ever tell Ben about it. He’ll ask, he has before. But it’s not Ben’s fault. It’s their Dad’s, for turning them into a child army to combat street villains instead of leaving them to the police. It’s the Horror, for living inside the portal in Ben’s abdomen. 

It’s the fault of the same, stupid men who haunt him, crying and gagging, for going out and doing something so stupid in a city known for its violent children vigilantes. 

And even though it’s not Ben’s fault, he knows his brother still feels guilty for it. So Klaus can’t let him know. He has to protect Ben as much as he can. Not letting him know he’s surrounded by the gory remains of the people he killed is going to be hard. _Again_. 

God, Klaus misses drugs. 

There’s a small knock at the door, and he groans, and rolls over, moving the pillow on top of his head to cover his face.

_“Don’t_ come in.”

The door swings open anyway, and Klaus worms one arm out from his cocoon of blankets to flip off whoever is ignoring him.

“Be nice,” Ben says, and Klaus huffs. He wonders if it would be too dramatic to groan again. 

He groans again. 

“Wow,” Diego says. How many of his siblings are here? He swears if it’s all of them—he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Maybe make another miserable noise for pity. “You look like shit. That is you under there, right, Klaus?”

Ever since Diego finally got over his stutter, he’s been annoying. Sassy and sarcastic, and those are _Klaus’s_ key traits, not his, thanks. He tells him as much. 

“Whatever,” Diego mutters, upset in his voice. 

Ben says, “Will you two cut it out? We brought you food, Klaus. Toast.”

“Oh great,” Klaus mutters, swallowing thickly at the thought as his stomach gurgles in protest. And then, without thinking, he lazily points somewhere in the corner where there’s a ghost, and mumbles, “Give it to him.”

Then he thinks, _Oh_ , and tries to cover. “Luther eats like a gorilla, anyway.”

_Nice save. Good job. You’re brilliant, Klaus._

“Luther’s not even here,” Ben says. “It’s just us. Are you okay?”

“I told you,” Diego whispers, and then hisses after the sound of a _thwack_. 

The ghost in the corner whimpers, says the word _monster_ again, and Klaus tenses up. A shiver travels down his spine, and he can’t stop himself from shuddering. He’s cold and covered in sweat and he wants to maybe die, he thinks.

“Shut up,” Ben hisses. 

_“Yes,”_ Klaus moans. “Please. Shut up.” _You’re dead,_ he thinks, and the voice inside his head sounds like a desperate little kid. _Just shut up. Go away._

He wishes everyone would just leave him alone. His brothers, the ghosts, Klaus would _kill_ —probably, he’s never killed anyone before, he and Vanya are probably, like, the _only ones_ , and he knows his Dad hates that and is disappointed in him—

He’s rambling. 

He just—he’d kill to just be nothing. Do nothing. He wants to lie in the middle of a forest or a desert, surrounded by nothing. No ghosts, no people, hell, if he could get rid of everything he’d be relieved. Probably. He’s not really sure what he’s asking for, but he wants it. 

Ben and Diego are whispering to each other, angry hushed tones Klaus can’t make out. It’s buzzing in the background of his skull just like the other ghosts pacing behind his bedroom door. And the bleeding ones on his bedroom floor.

_Oh, hey, that rhymed._

But really. It’s really just. So annoying. He wants to laugh, but nothing is funny. 

He laughs, anyway, a small giggle bubbling up and out of his throat like blood. “Shut up.”

“Are you detoxing?” Diego says, voice rushed and demanding.

_Oh, great job._ He’d do anything for that forest right now. Or some drugs. He really wants drugs.

“Ow!”

“We weren’t going to ask him yet!” Ben hisses. 

“I just did!” 

“I have the flu,” Klaus tries, halfheartedly, wincing at their arguing. 

“No, you don’t,” Diego snaps. “Ow! Stop hitting me! I’ll get Mom, Ben.”

“No, you won’t. Ugh!” 

Klaus squeezes his eyes shut tight enough he sees fireworks. He presses his hands against his ears, and holds his breath for five seconds. Then he lets it out, opens his eyes, and moves the pillow off his head, slowly uncurling and sitting up enough to squint at his brothers. He puts one finger over his mouth.

“Sssshhhhhhh.”

Diego rolls his eyes. “You’re totally detoxing.”

Ben sighs and relents with a guilty look in his eyes. “I think Diego’s right—ow! _Stop_ it.” 

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Diego says, even though he just punched Ben in the arm. 

Klaus moans again, as dramatically as possible, and flops back down on his bed, dragging his arm over his eyes to block out light.

“I hate you guys.”

“I knew it!”

“He didn’t even say _yes_. Shut _up_ , Diego.”

Diego ignores him. “We’re right, aren’t we?”

Klaus takes a deep breath. He just wants this to be over with. Maybe if he tells the truth, his brothers will leave him alone. Honestly, the ghosts are better company right now.

He wants to throw up.

“I might have . . . _maybe_ . . . run out of pills.”

“And you didn’t get more?” Ben asks.

Klaus thinks of his hidden stash of money in the attic. No one knows about it. No one but him. 

“With what money?” he says.

Diego laughs at him. “You ran out of money _and_ drugs?”

“Go away.”

“Well,” Ben says, “at least you can try to contact Five now.”

Klaus lazily opens his eyes. He glances around the room, then looks back to his brothers and shrugs. There’s another ghost in the room—an older woman, with a bloodstained shirt and sad eyes. He doesn’t remember any of his siblings killing her, but she’s here. She’s quiet.

“No Five. Cool. Can I borrow some cash?”

Ben frowns at him, crosses his arms over his chest like Dad and Luther do when they’re disappointed in him. “You have to try harder than that.”

Klaus sighs, and waves his hand, lying down and closing his eyes. The needle on his record player drops, and _This Year’s Love_ starts to play.

“Leave me alone to die.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Diego says. “I’m gonna go tell Alison.”

Klaus closes his eyes, and listens as Diego opens his bedroom door again and at least makes the effort to close it quietly. Footsteps pound quickly down the hall, and he can hear him running down the stairs. 

The ghost in the middle of the floor makes a gross choking sound, gasping and whimpering pathetically. The noise makes his stomach flip. He swallows thickly, sighs and curls back up into a ball. 

“I’m glad you’re getting clean, Klaus,” Ben tells him, sincerity coating his voice. 

He has no idea why, but hearing that makes the space behind his eyes hurt. He wants to cry. He hates himself, and he’s not even sure why. 

“It won’t last,” he says, and laughs. “If Five doesn’t answer the phone, I’m chugging the whiskey Daddy keeps locked in his desk.”

Ben’s quiet long enough for Klaus to pry one eye open, and look at him sideways, too tired to pick his head up from the pillow. Ben stands in the middle of the room, wide eyes intense with worry, or maybe something else Klaus doesn’t recognize, one foot disappearing inside of the ghost the monster inside him killed. 

“So you are doing it for Five,” he says. For some reason he sounds sad, even though they’ve all been asking him for weeks. He should be happy. Or relieved, or something, but Klaus can’t stand the tone of his voice like this. Everything hurts and he doesn’t understand. “That counts for something. Maybe after, you can stay off the drugs and—”

“The minute I’m done with the Séance, I’m doing all of the pills I have hidden in here with one swallow. Watch me.”

“But we’ll _help you,”_ Ben says, and he’s earnest and honest and it makes Klaus sick. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He’ll refuse seven ways from Sunday, or whatever the saying is, and Ben will _still_ believe he can help Klaus. Klaus doesn’t even want to help himself. He can’t live without drugs. He doesn’t want to. 

“I don’t want your help,” he says, voice rough like gravel, thick in his throat. He slowly turns to face the wall so he doesn’t have to see Ben’s heartbroken face at his rejection. But it’s too late, already seared hot and bright in his mind like the flashes from news cameras after a mission, even when he shuts his eyes too tight again. “You’re standing in blood, by the way.”

Ben huffs, clears his throat. “You’re not the _only one_ with an awful power, you know,” he says, and his voice is thick like Klaus’s, trembling and bubbly. His eyes hurt, and he’s so glad his brother can’t see when tears finally fall hot down his feverish face. “Your toast is on the table by your bed. Water, too.”

Klaus doesn’t say anything. He thinks maybe he should say _thanks_ , or, if he wants to get in the last word, maybe _I don’t even want it,_ or something mean like that. But his voice is stuck in his throat and he doesn’t want Ben to know he’s crying. So he stays quiet, and the door closes quietly behind his brother, and then he’s left with the ghosts in his room. Alone. 

He wishes Five never left.


	6. Chills (Dragging Down Your Spine)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of underage sex in this chapter, nothing too graphic, mostly just implying that it’s happened. Klaus doesn’t strike me as the type to wait until he’s an adult.
> 
> Also happy new year!

It doesn’t take long for the withdrawal to leave him, cold and weak in the middle of the night, trembling with relief and dread. It’s been a few days since he had that fight with Ben, and he still won’t really look him in the eyes. 

When he does, it’s concerned and fleeting. Sometimes angry. 

Klaus guesses he has to be okay with that. It makes it easier when more ghosts start to haunt him, loud and unending. It makes it easier because he doesn’t think he’ll notice the tired circles under his eyes, like he knows Vanya did the night before when she brought him water and Tylenol. 

He doesn’t want to fall asleep. He’s afraid to, and he hates himself for it. Every day, his siblings go out and stop all these evil people, they keep their city or the _world_ , even, safe. They’re brave in the face of danger.

Klaus isn’t even brave in the face of the dark. 

He remembers the bruises and scratches and he doesn’t want to fall asleep. He doesn’t want to close his eyes. He doesn’t want to lose control.

He’s not sure how long he’s been awake for.

Ghosts stand around his bed in a circle, shouting at him, begging him for help but he _can’t help them_. Klaus doesn’t even know what they want from him.

He’s so tired. Tears streak down his face, and embarrassed with no one _(alive)_ around, he wipes them off with the back of his hand. 

“You guys are worse than my Dad,” he whispers, and laughs, shaking his head as more tears fall down his face. He throws the blankets off, shivering as sweat cools on the back of his neck, his armpits, everywhere. He grabs a towel, and walks through the wall of ghosts to get to the bathroom. 

He closes the door as quietly as he can, starts the bath with water so hot it burns and turns his hands pink. He hisses, turns the water down just enough, and splashes his face, rinsing tear tracks away. His headache keeps getting worse, but he tells himself he can cry tomorrow.

The ghosts are still here. Even when he should have privacy, he never does. He thinks even when he doesn’t see them, they’re there. Still watching him. Through everything; every time he has to use the restroom, or change or take a shower. Every time gets so fucked up he can’t even think of ghosts—or worse, when he can’t think of anything _but_ them. Every time he goes to the bar, and meets with strangers, and undresses in front of them—he thinks he’s undressing in front of the ghosts, too. 

But when he’s on drugs, he can’t see them. 

Klaus thinks maybe that’s enough. 

But he’s clean right now, so Klaus closes his eyes, wet eyelashes pressing cold into his warm cheek as they scream at him, push their bony arms through his and try to grab him. He strips with his eyes shut, humming and imagining himself in the backseat of a car on an empty road, with an older boy who doesn’t know his name. He steps into the water slowly, gasping, and lowers himself down inch by inch until his head is underwater and the voices muffle. Sometimes, he can still feel them grabbing for him—their frozen limbs chilling him to the bone, even in the heat. But it’s quiet, and it’s nice, and he never wants to leave. 

He stays in the bath until the water is cold and he’s shivering so hard his muscles start to ache. His hands and feet are so pruney they itch, annoying and distracting. But he finally drags himself up, water dripping from his hair down his face. He wipes his eyes, gasps, and hunches over, hugging his knees and trembling. He steps out carefully, and has to sit on the ground with his head bowed down between his knees, trying to catch his breath for just a few seconds. He’s dizzy. Exhausted. The voices of the ghosts surrounding him sound like hallucinations scratching at his ears. 

_He’s so tired._

But he can’t go to sleep.

So Klaus stands up, wraps the towel around his waist, wraps one around his hair like he sees his sisters do, and pads out of the bathroom, spirits trailing after him like smoke. 

Smoke. Well, he never promised himself he would give up cigarettes, so he lights one once he’s in his room again. His fingers still tremble as he holds it up to his lips—Klaus smirks at himself, doesn’t even know why—but he takes a deep drag, and sets the cigarette on his windowsill before throwing the towel to the ground.

He goes to the cigarette every couple of minutes, takes a few drags and then continues dressing. Klaus doesn’t know what he wants to wear, and ends up changing a couple times, leaving shirts and pants on the floor, too lazy to pick them up. 

He settles on Alison’s clothes. A long sleeved, sheer, lace shirt he can see his chest through—which would be nice, if he had abs or something, but he thinks it’s still pretty hot. He pairs it with black ripped jeans, the bottoms rolled up, and no shoes. He goes to the mirror, ignores the pale, shadowed faces staring back behind him, and does his makeup. Dark eyeliner, honestly sloppy, with dark red lipstick. 

He wants to look better than he feels. 

Hair still damp, Klaus stands up from the dresser, stretches. He’s tired, and he doesn’t have any concealer for his eyes—Alison’s is too dark for him, and all of his makeup is hers. But he thinks he looks good, and he thinks he’s done. 

And he doesn’t want to wait. He’s too tired, and too antsy, and maybe even a little bit too worried to wait, if he’s being honest with himself. 

So he passes through the silhouettes of the people crowding around him, begging and threatening him to listen even though he doesn’t want to, and uses his telekinesis to grab the ouija board from his closet. He sets it down carefully on the center of his rug, just off center from a blood stain that was never actually there.

It’s the only gift he ever got from his father. Most boards are made of plastic, ink stamped on it in a factory and shoved in a box for some comic book store. But his is made of East Indian Redwood, stained and polished. The words in the center are burned and carved by hand, the corners decorated with fine lined moons and suns and stars, the planchette matching it. For something so awful, it’s really pretty. Dad had it made, just for him, when he was young and first started showing signs of seeing ghosts—before he could even read. 

Klaus hates it and loves it in the same sentence. He doesn’t understand himself, his own mind of emotions.

But it doesn’t matter. It’s useful. 

Even when he was old enough to actually interact with the ghosts like his father wants, it was never discarded. For some reason, he thinks it enhances his strength. It’s easier to call out specific spirits, and new ones always pop up uninvited, too. And he’s never done a Séance with his siblings before—never had to—but it makes sense that their energy will help his powers, too. He thinks. And if Five really is out there somewhere, he’s got to try. At least tonight. 

_That’s it,_ he promises himself, prays that maybe somehow Five will hear him and know he has to answer back if he can. _Just one night, Five. This is your only chance, I swear._

He’ll wake his siblings, and summon Five, and then he’ll throw the board back in the closet—carefully, probably—and take the drugs he has hidden. Then he’ll be able to breathe again. It’ll be quiet again, and there won’t be red everywhere he looks. 

Klaus glances at the clock on his nightstand. He has to move to read it, too many bodies crowding around so he can’t see. It’s four am. In two hours, their alarms will all go off together, loud and incessant, and then an hour later, they’ll have breakfast. Then his siblings will have group training, until nine, and then class with Mom until noon—then lunch, and an hour to study before more class, and then more training. 

Klaus doesn’t want to have to wait that long. He takes one final drag off his cigarette—his third tonight, and his hands are still shaking—and smashes the bud against his windowsill, dropping it outside the open window and watching as it falls into the garden. 

Then he walks out of his bedroom, and without knocking, creeps inside Luther’s room to wake him, a parade of ghosts trailing after his shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel more confident in myself when i’m wearing nice clothes and good makeup so now Klaus does too ig


	7. The Séance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben’s POV!! Mild graphic description. Things are finally picking up :)

It’s a little past four in the morning, and Ben is tired, eyelids dragging down, sitting on his pillow on Klaus’s bedroom floor. He’s cross-legged, slouched over with his cheek resting in one hand, elbow digging into his knee. He yawns, blinks hard in an effort to keep his eyes open. He should be in bed. Sleeping. 

But Klaus wants to try to contact Five—or hopefully, anyone who knows where they can find him, _alive, he hopes he’s alive_ —and it’s important. _Five_ is important, and Ben worries about him so hard he feels like he can’t do anything else. 

So here Ben is, exhausted and bleary-eyed, but forcing himself to stay awake. He didn’t even care to get dressed, or use the bathroom first, or even grab his slippers even though his feet are cold. Because Five is out there somewhere, and maybe he’s not dressed, either, and maybe his feet are cold, too. 

Ben just wants to find out what happened to his brother as soon as possible, and nothing else really compares to that. For him, anyway. And for most of his siblings, too, he thinks. 

They’re all in Klaus’s room, on his bedroom floor, sitting around his Ouija board with candles lit all around the room. And everyone else seems as tired as him, yawning and blinking in the dim light. No one else is dressed, either, except Alison has a fuzzy sweater tugged on top of her nightgown, and Vanya has a knitted blanket wrapped around her shoulders. That’s it. 

Except for Klaus. He’s the only one that bothered, _that took the time_ to get dressed, and it pisses Ben off. There are clothes kicked in the general direction of his closet that weren’t there yesterday, and his makeup is done, hair limp and damp still. So he took the time to shower, and get dressed and made up. He’s been up for hours, probably. 

They could have done the Séance earlier, then. Midnight, maybe, and Ben was still awake then, not so tired like he is now. They’ve just been waiting for Klaus to take his sweet time. 

_Five_ has been waiting for Klaus. For weeks. Not just to get dressed, and do his eyeliner, but to get off drugs. To sober up. To call the Séance together in the first place. 

He hopes Five is okay. He hopes he hasn’t been waiting too long. 

Klaus’s voice trails off, words he doesn’t even notice, and he claps like applause. Ben almost flinches. He didn’t realize he was spacing out. 

“Everyone understand the rules of the game?” he drawls, sounding amused. Ben doesn’t think it’s funny. Something in his stomach hurts at the thought. 

But he’s tired and annoyed and he doesn’t want to have to ask Klaus to calm down, or take things seriously. At least he’s not the only one upset, and so he doesn’t have to. Luther does instead. He snaps at him, and crosses his arms like he’s upset. “Stop it. It’s not a game. Can we just get this thing started already?”

“Pushy, pushy,” Klaus says, but he reaches forward, just barely touching the tips of his two pointer fingers to the triangle marker on the ouija board. “Except don’t actually—that’s the ghosts’s job! If they’d just _shut up.”_

“I wish _you_ would shut up,” Alison mutters, reaching forward to place her fingers on the edge of the triangle, too. Klaus giggles, like it’s a joke or like he agrees. 

Ben sighs, exchanges a tired glance with Diego and leans in to touch the triangle with them. There’s not much room for everyone, but they hover close together and make it work. He brushes shoulders with Diego on one side, and Luther on the other. Next to him is Alison, and Klaus is squeezed between her and Diego. Vanya sits outside the circle, a notebook and a pen held tightly in her hands. 

Klaus takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. Ben’s not sure if they’re supposed to, too, but he does anyway. The marker starts to move slowly, no questions even asked, yet, and he creeps one eye open, watching with baited breath. Their movements starts to form a star. And then he remembers Klaus telling him once about having to warm the board up or something, and he tries hard not to feel upset at it. He waits, and lets Klaus finish moving the marker, and then he takes a deep breath again, and closes his eyes. 

His chest feels like it could explode he’s so tense.

“Is the spirit of Five Hargreeves there tonight?” 

Nothing happens. 

He waits. Klaus repeats his question. Still, the marker stays on the center of the board. Ben bites his lip, glances up to meet the intense eyes of all of his siblings, waiting. Klaus says the same thing again, but still nothing happens. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. He can feel his heart thundering in his chest, nervous and excited.

Klaus asks again. The marker stays in the middle of the board.

“Is that the _only_ thing you’re going to ask?” Diego grumbles. 

“Shut up,” Klaus snaps back, obviously annoyed. But at least he’s not laughing anymore. “I wanted to be sure! Ugh.”

“Ask something else,” Luther suggests. “Like—”

“Shhh!” Klaus interrupts. “Jesus, alright! You guys are worse then the ghosts.” He huffs dramatically, and Ben rolls his eyes and grinds his teeth, annoyed at all of them. “Okay. Is there anyone there that knows where Five Hargreeves is right now?” 

Ben waits. Nothing happens. 

“Is Five Hargreeves alive?” Klaus asks.

Ben holds his breath. His muscles feel stiff, like they do after tough training sessions. His heart is loud in his chest and temples. 

Nothing happens. 

“That’s good, right?” Vanya says, and Alison jumps. Ben nearly does, too—he almost forgot she was even there. 

“Shh!”

“Alright. Is Five Hargreeves here right now?”

“You already asked that!” Alison says. 

“It’s different,” Klaus insists, rolling his eyes like it’s obvious. “I didn’t say _spirit_ this time. What if he’s alive, but in a parallel universe?”

“Whatever,” Diego says. “Can we ask some stuff now? Maybe instead of repeating everything?”

”Be my guest,” Klaus says. “Not like you’ve been talking to ghosts since you were three.”

Ben can’t help but roll his eyes. “Okay,” he says. “So . . . Is Five . . . _okay?”_

“Be specific,” Klaus hisses, and Ben huffs, even more annoyed. He feels almost desperate—and nothing is happening. He just wants to know if Five is alive. If he’s okay.

“Is Five going to come back?” 

“They’re ghosts, not psychic. They can’t see the future, Alison! Ugh, this was a mistake.”

“Shut up!” Luther snaps. “It was a good question. They’re _all_ good questions.”

Klaus groans and then laughs. “We’re not getting anywhere. Guess Five isn’t dead! Time to pack up the show.”

“Wait!” Ben cries.

“Not yet!” Luther says. “No one else is done. We’re still asking questions.”

”Well then make them good ones!”

Ben bites at his lip. He doesn’t know what to say, what to ask. They’ve already asked if Five is alright, and no answer. He just needs answers. Maybe they’re not trying hard enough. 

Ben is desperate.

“Is there _anyone_ who might know _anything_ about Five?” he asks.

“Oh my God!” Klaus says, and Ben groans at the same time he does. “I told you guys! You have to be—“

Ben jumps back, gasping so hard he chokes, and his heart beats hard and painful in chest. He ducks and covers his ears with his hands, palms pressing in so hard his head hurts. Noise explodes around them and suddenly the room is full of broken bodies, blue, transparent and almost glowing. They’re screaming. Hands reach for him, grasping at his clothes and Ben realizes with horror that they can touch him. He jerks back away from them, smacking out as more hands stretch out with long, dancing fingers.

The room is so crowded with ghosts that Ben can’t even see anything but them, anymore. His siblings are all probably less than two feet away and the only thing he can make out between and through the crowded figures are hazy silhouettes beneath them, quick flashes of a solid hand or foot kicking out.

There are so many of them. But Ben _can’t_ use the Horror—the room is too small. Everyone is right here. He can’t hurt his siblings, too. 

He fights back as best as he can, kicking and punching with techniques they learn in training. But it’s not training, and it’s not even a mission. He feels like he’s being swallowed up inside the crowded room, being buried and compressed by angry, screeching spirits, he’s _suffocating_. Every ghost he kicks away is replaced by more, hands everywhere, all over every inch of him, gripping tightly and yanking, fingernails digging in and dragging down his skin. His shirt is half off, tugged harshly down one shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye, Ben sees blood, clinging to the edge of his sleeve. He can’t even tell where he hurts, but he knows the sharp burning of bruises and cuts.

“Klaus!” He screams, begging. Begging just like the ghosts. They’re all talking, demanding, threatening. It’s so loud. 

_Why did you—how could you—kill—I’m sorry—please, just—help me—I didn’t mean to—understand—you killed me—monsters—help me—listen to me—freaks—killed me—listen to me—help—pay for what you—killed me—why—help me_

Somewhere over the noise, Luther’s deep voice cuts roughly through, husky and shouting. “Klaus! Stop it!”

“I’m trying!” Klaus screams back. He sounds closer than what Ben would expect, right next to him and _still_ , there’s just ghosts everywhere he looks, figures moving beneath them like shadows of fish in dark waters, just beneath the surface. His voice is muffled, drowned out and tiny in the midst of everything. 

And then, it stops. The ghosts disappear all as one, quick and sharp like a tv blinking out in the middle of a show. The silence rings in his ears, so sudden and sharp of a contrast he’s dizzy. He feels weak on his legs, vision tunneling out and narrowing with a fuzzy kind of darkness. He blinks it away, tries to catch his breath. His arm hurts, stings sharp and dull at the same time. 

It’s over. Ben’s ears are still ringing.

He’s at the edge of the room, facing the open door. Everyone else must be behind him—everyone except Dad. He’s standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed around the monocle, looking down at them in his own pajamas. He’s upset, angry, something it’s so hard to tell, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything and Ben doesn’t want to have to be the one to explain everything.

He turns around, looking for help, about to ask Klaus what the _hell was that—_ but—

_No,_ Benthinks, staring into Klaus’s wide, pleading eyes. 

There’s blood on his hands. He’s choking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup it’s 12:03 am which means it’s feb now and i can post this
> 
> also my birthday was yesterday, im 24!!
> 
> oh yeah also sorry but we all knew it was coming i mean look at the tags lol 
> 
> xoxoxo


	8. Drip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic description of blood and injury in this chapter!
> 
> happy march 1st you guys :)

Ben doesn’t know why he’s thinking about it, why he can’t stop.

The way the blood dripped slowly down Klaus’s fingertips, spreading out in little tiny rivers over the creases of his hand. How it trickled down the exposed area of his pale, thin wrist, pooling above the bunched fabric of his sleeve and then soaking through it.

He can’t think of Klaus’s scared eyes. He doesn’t want to think of the way he screamed, or of the way his brothers and sisters screamed. The blood on Klaus’s lips, spraying out as he choked and gagged; the sounds he made, small and stifled, soft whimpering and wet wheezing. 

“Ben.”

Or the blood on Klaus’s fluffy grey rug. The trashed state of his room, his lamp knocked over and candles blown out. The way his clothes looked, spilling out of the closet, attached to broken hangers. The drawers of his dresser, pulled out and splintered, contents strewn around the floor. The suitcase record player ripped open and apart, and all of Klaus’s favorite albums scattered across the floor like broken glass, black and shiny in the dim hallway light. 

“Ben?”

Mom’s calm but urgent voice in his ear and Pogo’s kind, husky orders and assurances. His father’s silence. The sound of—

“Hey!” Diego snaps his fingers, right in his face, and Ben jerks back, blinking, startled. 

He’s been spacing out. 

Ben takes a breath, opens his mouth. He’s angry and embarrassed and scared and he thinks he’s going to cry. He wants to be alone.

But Diego doesn’t look like he’s pitying him. He doesn’t look like he’s worried about Ben losing it. He’s not angry. Or upset. He doesn’t even really look like he’s worried about Klaus, either. His face is a blank canvas, no emotions painted on it, yet.

Ben wonders what he’s thinking about. He probably already knows.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat, fidgeting and twirling a loose thread on the edge of his torn night shirt, wrapping it around tight until the tips of his fingers turn purple and start to itch. “Thanks.”

“Y-yeah,” Diego says, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear. 

“You okay, Ben?” Luther asks, and Ben flinches. He hadn’t noticed him come in. He glances over, sees him sitting cross legged on the bathroom floor, leaning up against the wall. He’s shirtless, hunched over, holding a hand to his side, a white bandage pressed firm against the skin. There are scratches in groups of parallel lines trailing down his chest and arms, deeper cuts scattered in between them. One eye is bruised and swelling.

Vanya is sitting in the tub, pants off and draped over the side, a too big shirt that looks like an old one of Luther’s hanging loose on her skinny shoulders. She’s leaning halfway on the side of the tub, chin resting on her arm, and there’s a bandage on her wrist, peeking red in the middle. Ben thinks there are probably more bandages hidden underneath her loose shirt and behind the walls of the tub. Her eyes are red, and wandering nervously around the room. Her bangs are messed up, pushed up on her forehead and spiky. She waves at him halfheartedly, and he looks away. 

“Where’s Alison?” he asks, so he doesn’t have to say, _no. Leave me alone._

Luther grimaces. “She’s giving Klaus blood.”

Ben swallows. He feels sick, and he’s not even sure if it’s him or the Horror. “Oh.”

He thinks again of the blood trailing down Klaus’s fingers, slick hands grasping at his neck, wet with thick, red blood; and beneath it, the way his—

Diego nudges his knees with his own.

“Sorry. What?”

“I said, my turn.” Diego gestures towards his face. A long, thin cut begins on his cheekbone, trailing red past his temple and into his hair, ending just behind and above his ear. “Unless you want Luther to do it.”

“I can help,” Vanya offers, voice small and echoey in the bathroom. 

Ben shakes his head. He doesn’t want to be useless, and first aid is easy. Maybe it will even help get his mind off of Klaus and—

—and everything he doesn’t want to think about.

“No, I’ll do it.” 

Diego nods, shoves the first aid kit on him. “I don’t think it needs stitches. I don’t want you to use a needle on me. It’s gross.”

“Okay.” He stands slowly up from his seat on the lid of the toilet, relieved when the world doesn’t tilt on its axis. He’s okay. He’ll be fine. He walks to the sink, grabs the small bar by the faucet and watches as the soapy bubbles turn pink on his hands when he rubs it in. He has to rinse and wash three times before the water is clear again. 

At least the blood going down the drain is his own. The cut along his arm wasn’t deep, but it was long, and it bled a lot. Diego had cleaned it up, stitched it shut for him even though he hates needles. He feels the sting of it every time he moves, but that’s alright. It’s a good distraction, anyways. 

So is helping Diego. 

Ben grabs a clean washcloth from the shelf, and empties out a small, shallow jar full of cotton balls. He fills the jar full of warm water and sets it on the stool Diego had been using as a chair before he moved to the toilet lid. Then he wets the washcloth, gently dabs at the side of his brother’s face to clean the blood off. He soaks up more water, squeezes the cloth out, and continues mopping up the blood, tacky and sticking everywhere it shouldn’t. 

When he’s done, the water is darker than it was in the sink when he washed his hands. Ben makes Diego stand up, dumps it down the toilet since Vanya is still sitting in the tub, and flushes.

“I think we might have to cut your hair,” he says, gently dragging a finger along the side of it. It’s cleaner, now, and doesn’t look as deep. He probably won’t have to get stitches.

Diego shrugs. He still looks like he doesn’t care about anything. Ben feels like crying. 

“I’ll go get Dad’s razor,” Vanya says. 

She stands up from the tub slowly, making her knees pop, and she winces. When she steps out, Ben catches sight of stitches on her thighs, bandaids and bruises on her bony shins. 

He doesn’t remember anyone patching her up. But he’s been out of it. He barely remembers even walking out of Klaus’s room. He thinks Pogo had to lead him. Maybe he helped her, earlier. 

Luther is still sitting in the corner against the wall, as quiet as he’s ever been. His head is down, one hand curled in a fist and resting on his knees as he leans his forehead against it. His other hand is still pressed to his side, stiff and unmoving. Ben almost wants to ask him if he’s alright, but he doesn’t. 

It’s a stupid question, anyway. 

Ben feels himself start to space out, thinking again of Klaus’s bloody hands, and at the thought he feels sick. His stomach turns again, and this time he’s sure it’s the Horror, slithering against the portal inside him like they’re as uncomfortable as he is. Like maybe they also saw Klaus, teeth stained and lips smeared red, lipstick and blood splotchy on his face as he—

He needs a distraction. Vanya isn’t back yet.

So he grabs a cotton ball from the pile on the shelf, picks up the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the floor and soaks it. He presses it against the cut on his brother’s cheek, and it fizzes red and pink. 

Diego hisses through his teeth. He shivers. 

“Sorry,” Ben mutters. He doesn’t get an answer. Diego stays quiet.

He hears footsteps in the hall, and turns to see Alison and Vanya both standing in the doorway. Alison has a split lip, and there’s a bruise on her cheekbone, and a line of thin tape above one eyebrow. She’s not wearing her sweater anymore, just a stained, thin, blue spaghetti strap nightgown. Her arms have scratches and finger-shaped bruises circled around her wrists. There’s a dark mark on the inside of one elbow, a cotton ball held there by a thin piece of red gauze tied tight. Tear tracks line her cheeks, and her eyes are red. 

Ben has to remind himself to breathe. His stomach hurts. 

“Here,” Vanya says softly. She hands him Dad’s butterfly razor. The metal is warm in his hands. “I changed the razor, too. So it’s clean.”

“Thanks.” Ben swallows, clears his throat, but before he has a chance to ask, Diego interrupts him. 

“Is Klaus okay?” 

Luther picks his head up from his knees so fast he winces and almost chokes. He starts crying when he sees Alison, and Ben has never seen him cry, not once. Not when Dad pushes them so hard in training they could almost pass out; not when missions go bad and he scolds them, or worse, people _(innocent people)_ die because of it. Not when they got their tattoos, and the buzzing sting scratched at Ben’s arm for an entire day. 

“Alison,” he says, and he sounds like a child. 

They all are. They’re just thirteen. They’re kids.

Ben takes a shuddering breath, looks away from Alison and Luther hugging tightly so he doesn’t start crying, too. 

He holds the razor tight in his hands and turns back to Diego. He scrapes the edge gently against his scalp, and concentrates on keeping his hand steady as he listens to Alison’s watery voice, Luther’s deep assurances. 

_It’s okay,_ he says, but Ben knows it’s not. 

“I’m okay,” Alison says, and her breath hitches. “I’m fine. And Klaus, he—Mom said—Mom said he might not . . . if he doesn’t . . . ”

_Survive_ , he hears, somewhere in his own mind when his sister doesn’t say it. 

Ben takes a deep breath again, pauses his work to set the razor down on the stool and shoves a hand into his stomach. His vision is blurry, but he won’t start crying because Klaus is _fine_. He has to be. 

Diego looks at him like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

He wipes his eyes, picks up the razor again. 

“He might not be able to talk again,” Alison cries, and Ben’s vision starts to get blurry again. His breath is still shaky, and he doesn’t know why, because he’s _not crying_. He won’t cry. 

He thinks of Klaus’s sharp laughter, and his crude jokes. His soft voice in the middle of the night when Ben has a nightmare and climbs into bed with him. How high his voice sounds when he talks in his sleep, and how there’s not a hint of teasing in his speech when they wake up together. How he never shuts up when he’s talking, even if Ben doesn’t know what he’s talking about, or even if he’s already heard the story three times before. How keen his voice sounds when he tries to convince him and Diego and sometimes even Five to light things on fire with him. How high and dramatic he acts when they turn him down, or how loud and excited he is when they agree.

He can’t imagine not hearing Klaus make fun of him ever again. 

He sets the razor down, dabs at Diego’s head again with a damp cloth, gentry drags the dry end over it to brush the hair away.

“But he’s going to be alright?” Vanya asks.

Ben doesn’t think _not being able to ever talk again_ sounds _‘alright,’_ but he doesn’t say anything. He wants to know the same thing, even if the question still sounds so harsh and awful, because it’s _Klaus_. 

“I don’t know,” Alison admits. Ben glances over to see her sniff, and wipe at her face with a crumpled wad of tissues. She’s sitting on the floor next to Luther, now, leaning up against him with his arm around her tight. “I rumored him. But he wasn’t even awake. Mom—Mom gave him something so he couldn’t feel pain, and then he fell asleep. When I gave him blood, he was—he was unconscious. And he was so still and pale. But—but I told him I heard a rumor he survived, and that he was going to be _fine_ and wake up in the morning okay.”

“If you rumored him, he’ll be fine,” Luther says.

Ben has to believe that. 

He turns back to Diego again, and slowly starts to tape his cut closed. Every once in a while his vision will get blurry and thoughts will stray. Every time he spaces out, he has to bite his cheek and force himself to pay attention to what he’s doing. 

By the time he’s done, Pogo stands in the doorway, looking in on them. His hands are clasped in front of his chest, and he isn’t smiling. 

“Master Reginald wishes to see you all,” he says, stepping back from the doorway to give them room. 

“Come on,” Luther says, standing and helping Alison up from the floor. 

Everyone is getting up, leaving the bathroom, but Ben feels like he can’t move. The room is loud with the sound of his heavy breathing and heart beating. He’s sweaty and shivering. 

He wishes they hadn’t gotten up this morning. He just wants to go back to bed. 

Ben takes a deep breath, looks over at Diego. He grasps his hand, and Ben is almost surprised when he doesn’t pull away. 

“He’ll be fine,” Diego says. 

“Yeah,” Ben says, nodding. “Alison rumored him. He’s okay.” 

_Klaus is fine,_ he thinks, stepping out into the hallway, and slowly trailing down the stairs to go see their father, and hopefully, their brother. 

_Klaus is fine._


End file.
